


Very differently

by Loolph



Series: Strike Team Delta [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, First Meetings, M/M, Multi, Nick Fury Knows All, POV Multiple, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Recruitment, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-05-06 22:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14657115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph
Summary: When The World's Greatest Marksman makes a different call, or what really happened in Budapest.





	1. disobeying a direct order

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read as a stand alone text, or it can be loosely linked as a sequel to [11th Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180178/chapters/22611233) \- fanficworm's choice. Any way you'll have it, I hope you'll enjoy it, folks.

Clint was bummed out. He was tired and hungry, running low on both cash and ideas, outmaneuvered by this cutthroat city and run down by the men hunt he wasn’t even the main event. He was also bleeding non stop for the last 4 days. Just a small bleed, mind you, firstly staunched out by feminine, deadly helping fingers. Which had put the wound there in the first place. One inch higher and even the most nimble digits wouldn’t do the trick and he would have bleed out within minutes. But, considering the alternative of a direct head shot, a small mercy. Less missing of a target on the body, more of a collateral damage. Less of a gamble, more a precision strike.

“Behind you,” whispered soft, disembodied voice from somewhere above. It was followed by a moving silhouette and a flash of a bullet traveling uncomfortably in the direction of Clint’s groin, leaving him no time to react whatsoever, not even blink. The last time he was so surprised, he heard Coulson for the first time. 

“Holly shi…” gritted Clint’s teeth, shut mid swear, when he felt the sting in his thigh. But then his sharp shooter reflexes screamed at him that it was just that - a scrape, a through and through. And then his ears promptly pitched in with a gurgle noise coming from the floor at his feet. He spun around.

The round took out a bad guy, crawling silently behind his back on Barton’s perch blind spot. A shot fired by a figure jumping off the celling support beam. In complete darkness. From 30 feet away. A little graze so close to Clint’s femoral artery was just an inconvenience, really. When the realization had hit his consciousness, his legs decided to give out. He stumbled, leaning heavily on the nearest storage wall. Or maybe it was the blood loss? Barton’s thoughts were a little bit fuzzy on the whole.

“Barton, report.” Coulson’s clipped tone crackled in his comms. “Is the target out?” The sudden discharge broke absolute silence protocol on this mission. Phil had every reason to be concerned.

“You s-shot me!” accused Clint, words slurring, his hands dropping his reflexively drawn hand gun, pointed at the body at his feet and going for the wound. He could feel a wet trail flowing down his leg, even before his knees had hit the dusted floor.

“Just a little bit,” an amused, female voice hummed with agreement, coming closer, looming over him. Shit, he turned his back at her! His target!

“Evac ETA 8 minutes.” Clint barely registered Coulson’s murmur. He felt a presence at his side, heat seeping from a lean shape, pressed to his arm he used for clutching at the leg, his deft fingers sliding fruitlessly in all that gore. Delicate digits removed his earpiece with precision, putting it on the ground nearby, then proceeded with fast body check.

“Well, that doesn’t give us much time,” the honey edge of the tone didn’t changed, but there was nothing amused nor dedicate about what those fingers were now doing with Clint’s injury, pushing his hands aside. He was brought back from blacking out fast, pain working on sharpening the surroundings but doing funny things with his perception. Was that fire on this woman’s shoulders?

“No, it’s my hair,” again, with the mirth in the voice, the woman quipped. “Who knew a little hemorrhage would make such a romantic out of you, Clint Barton?” she flirtatiously blinked at him, but quickly averted her attention to his leg, producing a knife and making the tear in his tac suit bigger without actually hurting him.

“Shit, did I say that out loud?” Barton cringed, sliding his eyes over what she was doing with his wound. “And do I know you? You’re nice.” he hissed, changing his mind almost instantly, once she produced a small tube of what looked like hold fast and begun emptying in into the graze. It stung like all hell.

“You should,” voice bland, she continued the conversation like nothing was happening. “I’m Natasha Romanoff,” the data was presented in a deadpan style, but she was looking into his face again, judging his reaction to that little fact. Clint’s eyes stung with the unshed tears. Jesus, what was she doing to his leg? Pouring acid?

“No, you can’t be Natasha,” he spoke through a lump in his closing throat. “If you’re Romanoff, I’ve got orders to kill you.” Clint felt more than he saw the woman’s shoulders raise in a shrug. It wasn’t nonchalant. It was just acknowledgment of truth already known and processed. He felt somewhat better, the pain easing slightly, his head clearing a little. He also didn’t see any more blood flowing out of his wound.

“If you kill me now, you’re going to die,” she said simply, straightening her back, sitting on her haunches, like for a longer stay. “I’m closing the nick in your leg with my fingers, before the glue sets in.” A smile was sharp like a knife’s edge she used earlier on Clint’s clothes and just as fast. He instantly wanted to see it again. Stop it, you stupid brain, she shot you.

“Why are you doing that?” he kept his words slurred and simple, not wanting to give out that he was thinking more sharply. He shouldn’t have even tried with deception by the looks on her face.

“I killed my associate to save your life,” again, simple statement of facts. “I don’t want you to bleed out because of it.” Natasha took one hand away from his wound, going for a sleeve pocket and producing another small object. A syringe this time.

“Why did you do that anyway?” Clint cowered on the inside, eyes following her palm. She took the plastic covering the needle between her teeth, pulled, producing the sharp end, depressing the plunger a little, so that a liquid squirted out into air at eye level - all with just left hand. Clint was grudgingly impressed and scared shitless. He had a thing with needles, ok?

“He wasn’t a very nice man.” Romanoff hummed, as if to herself. “I like you better,” she said, stubbing him neatly next to the graze and pushing the liquid into Barton’s flesh. It felt like a mule’s kick and then, like someone was pouring ice into his veins.

“I can tell,” Clint grunted, breathing through a sudden attack of nausea. Hypos, man. “And how do you know me?” This was going to make him better, he gathered. If she wanted him dead, she didn’t have to poison him by giving him an injection. All she had to do was get up and leave.

“You’ve been on my tail for 27 days now,” Natasha cupped the needle and put the whole syringe back in her pocket. Then she proceeded with wiping her hands on Clint’s torn trouser’s leg. Which he saw, but didn’t register through touch. His whole leg was numb now. “Let’s just say I took notice and observed you likewise.” He realized then - she was wiping her hands. Both of them. Huh.

“Oh, and how long have you known your associate?” Clint asked absentmindedly, jerking his thigh here and there, and not sensing a thing. Also, there was no more blood. He was starting to feel really fun-fucking-tastic, in fact. Whatever was in that shot, it was clearly worth it. He was starting to like Natasha. Like, a lot.

“12 years,” answered Romanoff and Clint had to backtracked this whole conversation in his head. Well, shit.

Natasha was looking at him as if preparing for a backlash, a little sad smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Clint was still reeling. He had not expect that. But maybe he should. It had explained a great deal. And had put even more expectations on Clint. And a whole lot of trust. Barton raised his eyes and with his own grin, returned her gaze.

And there it was - instant connection. Below the high of the drug and the low of the pain. Below the courtesy of two professional assassins. Below shimmering flirtatious intentions of two consenting adults. Two people who were fucked over time after time by their closest. And Clint being the one who had found a way out of that vicious circle, had shone as an example.An unlikely flame to an unwilling deadly, redheaded moth. An absurd SHIELD’s success story. A knight in a bloodied armor that at the moment needed the saving. It was a good hook, Clint had to admit. A perfect bait. He could work with that. And, unfortunately for Natasha, he was determined to go through with it to the other side. To Coulson, who would do the catching. Whether she liked it or not. But for now, they needed time. 

“Hang in there, Barton, ETA 3 minutes.” somewhere from the ground, Coulson’s voice informed. It carried a note of alarm Clint never heard before. So, Phil must’ve heard the whole exchange, including the potent pause at the end. Thought processes had been followed. Conclusions had been made. Phil knew how and what Clint was thinking almost always before Clint knew himself even. Well, then.

Barton picked up his gun and brought the butt of it, crushing the tech without blinking. All connections severed. No strings attached. Flying solo. Well, in this instance, duo. He knew Coulson would understand. Eventually.

“You need to go,” muttered Barton, risking one last time, trying the strength of Romanoff’s commitment just for sake of his own sanity. “If you stay here, they will kill you. And arrest me,” he looked at her, completely open and honest, showing her the gravity of his choice, disobeying a direct order. She just shrugged and began applying a field tourniquet on his leg, fast but gentle.

“If I’ll go, you’ll die,” Natasha repeated stubbornly, not yet thanking him but beginning to begrudgingly understand.

“Ok, then show me where to hold this down.” Romanoff did, cleaning her hands on his leg again. They switched the grasp on the wound dressing, like if they had done it a thousand times before. “Go find us a ride outta here.” Clint gathered a cheeky grin and had thrown it Natasha’s way. She didn’t seemed to buy it but got up to her feet anyway. As soon as she slipped away, he allowed his smile to do the same. 

Barton looked over the crushed comms sadly and remembering a hidden tracking bug inside, he played with his watch, awkwardly staining it with blood when removing and one handedly placing it on the ground with its hands set on 11. He then scrambled to his feet, ready to bounce.

He just hoped Phil would forgive him for this. Someday.


	2. blanket fort sleep over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is no detail description of inappropriate behavior, but some evens implied in this text might be considered as triggers. If you feel like you might be affected in any way, please check out those spoilers stated below the chapter. Safety first. Always.

Natasha was surprised. She had been with Clinton Francis Barton for 4 days now. Fleeing, hiding and recuperating for 4 days and 7 hours, to be more exact. The consternation didn’t happen very often in her life, so it had stuck deeper than normal, but she adapted. You couldn’t stay shocked for long, if you wanted to survive Red Room. Apparently, a little field surgery with the improvised groping and stitches formed out of superglue had made being nearly shot to death all even in Barton’s book. Perhaps the not killing each other part, when both of their hands were free did most of the trick.

“No hard feelings, right, Nat?” Clint asked, innocently daring to give her a nick name. He was sliding up on one tiny bed she had helped him into, his voice tight with stifling a groan. Was it pain? The boost from the syringe was going to wear off soon. But you never knew, with men and shady rooms. Another of life lesson’s. Natasha hoped that the withdrawal would kick in before long. She would be safe then, for a while. To rest. To think. And what a kick that will be, Natasha learnt. Intimately. Frequently. She almost pitied the boy.

“Non, if you stop bleeding on me,” she growled, stiffing minutely at their close proximity, their bodies’ position and presence of a bed, no matter how tiny. “I like these clothes.” Romanoff braised herself for the inevitable, but Barton’s hands didn’t linger on her more than strictly necessary to pull himself up. His face was open, eyes dancing with teasing sparks. The lack of sexual intentions might still be due to blood loss. Natasha wasn’t a fool. Fools didn’t last in her world.

“Those are some very nice clothes,” Clint agreed amiably, looking at her for a second, then turning his full attention around, checking for blind spots and exits from their shady room, his hands going straight for his holsters. An unconscious habit. A gesture bringing peace. A true passion. In that moment Natasha recognized that if they’d ever end up making love, it would be by her conscious decision, not by being coerced nor forced. That is for children, her training had reminded. Uninterested eyes shouldn’t be enough to put your guard down. But, for the first time in years, she wished.

“Stay here,” Natasha rolled her shoulders and went to the bathroom, looking for a first aid kit and some distance. She had checked them in to a seedy motel, playing a cliche double bluff game. The goal was to lay low, below the radar, off the beaten path, where the only true renegades remained. Be badass and boldly obvious about it. Barton’s bloodied look ruled out usage of any decent looking locations anyway. Her condition wasn’t any better at the moment. New attire will be a must soon. And some food.

“Where am I going to go?” through the cracked door, she heard Clint’s petulant question and rustling of clothes on bed spread. She froze. Of course he was undressing. See, whispered her experience, just like all men. Just like your associate. Natasha took a silent, studying breath, looking in a mirror for her resting blank face. It’s just another body. You can take it. When she got back to the room, purposefully caring the kit in front of her, trying to delay what was coming and checked over the man on the bed, she was startled again, stopped in her tracks.

The bed was not tussled. The man was not naked. Barton wasn’t looking at Romanoff expectantly. He wasn’t looking at her at all. The boy was poking at his wound, head bowed, face serious, scrunched in discomfort. A removed field tourniquet laid unless on the floor by the bed, next to cut off tac suit trouser’s leg. What was up with this boy? Why wasn’t this going as usual? Why wasn’t he like all the other men?

“Don’t do that,” Natasha hissed, furious, not knowing what to do. How to react. “You’ll open it up again,” she added, tossing the kit at him. Clint snapped his eyes up, catching it instinctively, but taken aback by her vicious tone. God, she didn’t have time for this. His leg was good. She saw to it. Fixed it as much as possible. All it needed was time to mend itself. And she didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time.

She noticed Barton’s missing watch in an instance and was envious a little. Is that where the GPS bug was? Was it really that simple with SHIELD’s leash? Just take the damn thing off? She was not that lucky. Red Room was not that inattentive. Barton will have to dig the tracker out of her. Literally. Deep from under her right scapula. She was flexible and ambidextrous enough but removing it by herself intact was just not anatomically possible. And breaking it by indelicate handling meant detonation. In that instance, paralyze was a best case scenario. Taking the building down with you was the worst. Red Room was deviously inventive, both with the placement and technology. And it needed to be pulled out sooner rather than later. Before they realize, that Natasha’s associate was not simply too deep undercover to check in. Before Barton’s hands start shaking uncontrollably with withdrawal. She will have to go out for more first aid supplies and antibiotics while she was still fully operational.

“Where are you going to go?” Clint placated, startled when she turned around abruptly and went for the door. Away from one tiny bed in a shady room in a seedy motel, which was business as usual. Away from Clinton Francis Barton, who was not.

“Don’t do that,” she said again, over her shoulder, but voice flat this time. “I won’t be explaining myself to you. To anyone,” the unspoken >>ever again<< was strongly lingering in the air between them.

“Good,” he simply nodded, relaxing on the bed and going for the first aid items.

“Good?” the incredulity stopped her mid step, with a hand on the door handle, head tilted. No argument? No male posturing?

“Yes, good. I just felt obliged to take an interest.” Barton shrugged, cleaning his scrape with gauze drenched in rubbing alcohol, immersed in his task. “Now, I don’t have to,” he hissed through clenched teeth, looking away for a moment, at her. “Just like with Phil,” he hummed, shrugging and pouring down more rubbing alcohol straight at his leg, forgoing any soft touch. “Just like with wearing stripes with plaid,” he added thoughtfully, blinking away the tears, his eyes big. She couldn’t listen to the boy any longer, he wasn’t making sense. “Could you bring back some grub? I could really use a pizza slice or three,” he shouted, like an afterthought, as the doors were closing after Natasha.

Romanoff took her time as long as she dared. She ended up brining Barton nokedli with chicken paprikash. She also insisted on removing the tracker first, before eating. Clint’s whines about letting good food go cold died out once he heard about the details of the procedure. Afterwards, he agreed that that would be wasting some nice take out, with all the almost puking caused by digging under someone else’s skin and bone.

They spent the next 103 hours sleeping, eating and talking, Barton on his back and Natasha on her stomach respectively, both with slightly elevated temperatures due to their injuries and blood loss. Within that time, they begun sharing one tiny bed like during a blanket fort sleep over. They were shaking, huddled together for body heat and stories, coming down from drugs and pain in a safe haven of bedcovers, toilet breaks and food deliveries.

Natasha didn’t mind that she was the one providing all the contact with the outside world. Planning ahead. She disposed of the tracker by planting it on some friendly neighborhood drug dealer, supplying her with good painkillers on the way over to the next slum. Happy hunting, Red Room. Observing the circumstances. Nat helped Clint with taking a shower and changing clothes after the first sweat broke without flinching and gratefully received his help in return, wordlessly bringing the food and regimenting the drugs every time they felt hungry or hurt. Listening patiently. About bow shooting days in the circus and nights as a little sibling to an asshole big bro. About we care, SHIELD cares, I care and there is no I in team. About this guy called Phil who wrangled paperwork like a pro, sneaked Einstein quotes into everyday conversations and had a killer almost smile. To Nat, Phil sounded too good to be true.

Barton was providing all of the inside comfort. Goofing around. Stuffing his face. Talking more nonsense. And later, when Clint’s shivers got really bad, Nat found herself not fine with silence anymore. She found herself telling her stories. About ballet classes and spiders. About how love is for children and getting red in her ledger. About 12 years ago, when she was 7 and introduced to her associate. About 4 years ago, when she was 15 and he started with her intimacy training. About 27 days ago, when she discovered there was no such thing as an intimacy training. She found herself healing from more wounds than just under her shoulder blade.

After 4 days and 7 hours of this serenity, when Red Room black ops cleaning squad came for her and Clint, Nat was reminded that she wasn't sharing one tiny bed in a shady room in a seedy motel with a boy. She was sharing it with Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman and he was by her side in every way possible. Brutal. Efficient. Fast. Even when he couldn’t run straight or just plain stand, riddled with infection, he still could riddle others with bullets. Even when his hands were weak, shaking from fever and exhaustion, his aim was always true. Romanoff didn’t even have time to react, to lift a finger, equally sick, now surrounded by dead bodies, blinking the shock away. Clint just shrugged, smiling his cheeky grin at her and asked for pizza again.

After the initial breach of her personal space in that warehouse, in this room, on that one tiny bed, that wasn’t followed by anything more inappropriate than bad fart joke, this time spent together with Clint was the most relaxed Nat had ever felt in her entire life.

In that moment, Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow instantly decided that she wanted to feel it again. It really was not that complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: PTSD, behavioral habits of a victim of sexual assault, implied prolonged sexual abuse of a minor.


	3. silent interpretation of evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I foolishly thought that three characters meant three chapter, right? Wrong. It turned out, that SHIELD's very own director decided to add his point of view to this story, after he let Phil Coulson do all of the leg work in this chapter. So, the one making all of the points and closing the argument in chapter four will be Nick Fury. Because, how can one fight or outsmart and win with that cloud of leather wearing menace? You just can't...

Phil finally allowed himself to be exasperated over his espresso. Later, Phil knew Clint would say that Phil could be pissed at last. Much later, Phil learnt that Nat would comment the whole situation by rising an eyebrow and handing him cream. Director Fury would just stare menacingly, stirring his own mocca with vengeance.

At the moment, SHIELD would say, that senior agent Coulson was flabbergasted. It had been 4 days, 14 hours and 47 minutes since Barton cut all connection with his handler and went silent on them. It meant he went rouge according to SHIELD’s book. Ever since he disobeyed the direct order. Ever since he disappeared with Romanoff. Ever since he chose her over them, it seemed.

“Kindly walk me through, agent Cho”, politely demanded Coulson, once he arrived at Barton’s initial perch. It was 1 day, 8 hours and 33 minutes past time stamp of communication loss with specialist Barton, in Coulson’s estimate. It was 1 day, 8 hours and 33 minutes since Hawkeye defected, in SHIELD’s popular opinion.

But no-one had a heart to tell Coulson that straight to his face.

Or rather balls, as director Fury would have put it.

As the on site highest ranking lab technician, agent Amadeus Cho was assigned as a temporary CSI team leader. He showed at the scene unhappily groggy, escorting Coulson in alongside the red, overlapping footprints - female and male, judging by the sizes.

“Clearly escaping together,” agent Cho said, pointing with a plastic cup of instant coffee he was clutching. Senior agent Coulson didn’t react. He was unfairly composed for this ungodly hour, in Cho’s eyes.

Next were the unapologetically crushed comms tossed near by abandoned watch.

“Any signs of struggle missing,” grumbled squad’s leader, scratching his unshaven cheek, again fishing for feedback. Non was given. What is it with this guy and his suits always looking like freshly pressed?

Following, agent Cho gestured to pools of blood: first - startlingly big though survivable and second - lethal. Also, some crimson smears on a wall were found below delicate tip-toes slightly disturbing the dust on metal support beam overhead.

“This is were it all started,” unit leader quipped, one last time angling for any notice. Instead, senior agent Coulson’s eyes lingered on discarded SHIELD wrist watch, with its hands looking deliberately set on 11. What was he staring at? It was just a standard issue watch with a GPS bug, not even remotely like his. Agent Cho proudly played with his golden Rollex knock off, grudgingly catching it being set on a wrong time zone.

“Self removal of the tracker is as good as admission of guilt, sir,” Cho’s comment wavered, when he bravely voiced the whole CSI team’s silent interpretation of evidence, gunning for argument. Only one set of prints was found on the watch - Hawkeye’s.

Senior agent Coulson almost smiled, thanked him with a head tilt and proceeded to walk the site all by himself again. And again. And again…

Phil used this little show of leg work to clear his head. He now had the time.

“Can I have the lab test results, please,” was senior agent Coulson’s second polite sentence since his arrival. He proceeded with mystifying the rest of forensic squad with the precision he went through photos of the warehouse from the surroundings to detail, trace evidence of blood types and other substances, all a show to cover that Phil had all the information he needed already. The team had not yet met anyone so detail-oriented, focused and pleasant yet unyieldingly demanding fast results, like every second counted, like he had somewhere to be but also behaving like he had all the time in the world to get there. Even agent Cho backed off for a while, taken aback.

“All this paints a pretty damning picture, sir,” gritted Cho around mouthful of horrible coffee and resentment, after a while. Coulson’s silent treatment unnerved him. Amadeus was good at his job, ok? He didn’t need this wordless judgement. Like if he was biased. Like if he was wrong.

“I disagree,” politely answered senior agent Coulson. Phil disliked, when people were jumping to conclusions, but Fury hated when people were jumping the gun. Phil held his tongue.

“Thank you for your work.” Senior agent Coulson acknowledged unit’s effort with polite head tilt. “Dismissed,” he gave away nothing more of his personal opinion.

The teamwork with SWAT was a different story. After his quite unpopular stance about clearly open-and-shut case’s analysis of the initial location, senior agent Coulson was still leading the chase himself. His choice as first in command was substantiated by Director’s Fury argument, that Coulson had the best knowledge of junior agent Barton’s background and extensive expertise in Natasha Romanoff’s profile of all senior agents on the ground.

It wasn’t personal, high ranking SHIELD staff agreed. Senior agent Coulson was never known to operate on such assumptions, they decided. Personal was never important to senior agent Coulson. He was given the command with minimum fuss. But that was the official’s talking.

Even though, Phil agreed with SHIELD’s assignment and carried all orders to the letter, he knew his impartiality creeped other people out. He had eyes. He had ears. The rumor mill was that all of this was very personal indeed. They were talking that Coulson was making an exemption for Clint for a while now. And Clint took an advantage of that in the most cruel way, it seemed. He made it very personal, when he chose Natasha over Phil.

Now, after 4 days, 8 hours and 36 minutes and some spectacular running around, it was tactical unit’s assessment, that senior agent Coulson might be leading them on a wild goose chase. They thought Coulson was enjoying himself too much. Until Phil had lead them to a secondary scene, as if by magical sixth sense. As if by invitation. As if he knew where he was going all along.

Some people could never learn to observe or gather intel, mused Coulson.

Some people were seriously stupid or suspicious assholes, agreed Fury.

“Agent Cho, if you’d be so kind…”, Coulson pointed, standing politely outside secondary crime spot, after the investigation’s team entered the room. It was 4 days, 9 hours and 13 minutes past time stamp of lost contact with Hawkeye, as per Coulson’s inner clock. It was 4 days, 9 hours and 13 minutes since Barton changed colors, in SHIELD’s stance.

Still, no-one confronted senior agent Coulson about it, including agent Cho. Director Fury's permanent evil eye was extremely off putting to everyone.

Amadeus sipped at another dreadful coffee, standing ankle deep in gore, indignation and defiance showing on his scowling face. He allowed Coulson in with a shrug. Red Room black ops cleaning squad bodies' outlines surrounded one tiny bed in a shady room in a seedy motel in Budapest’s worst slums.

“What a bloodbath, holly shit.” Agent Cho awkwardly stepped around one of the blood pools disgusted, tripping over a rack holding a laser pointer. Coulson had silently steadied him and the tripod. The red beams cutting through the small space danced out of sync for a second, making the lined up trajectories of a shoot out waver on the walls in a macabre discotheque.

“What do they think they are - Bonnie and Clyde?”, snared Cho, instead of showing appreciation for senior agent’s literal support. Coulson’s helping hands were not acknowledged nor welcomed. Amadeus got this, thank you very much.

After sorting out the errant ray, further analysis confirmed, in surprising turn of events to everyone but Coulson, that all shots seemed to be fired from one tight spot on the bed. After ballistic’s experts finished their testing, it turned out, that all bullets came from just one source. Fingerprints later proved beyond a shadow of a doubt to be of one - Clint Francis Barton’s.

“This looks very cosy to me,” agent Cho pointed at the tossed bed covers, one blanket, one pillow, “he’s fucking her, he must be, sir.” The vicious glee was clear in his voice. It made the rest of the CSI squad cringe. Shit, man, you didn’t have to rub it in. They all liked Clint and pointing out the guy got pussy whipped to his handler was somehow against a bro code, even in SHIELD.

“She turned him, it’s clear as day, sir,” was agent’s Cho last, perfect parting shot, or so Amadeus thought. As per usual, senior agent Coulson kept his cool, remaining perfectly professional and quiet. Amadeus huffed in annoyance, that Coulson did not raised to any baiting. Again. The guy was a robot. Cho left in a thick cloud of self importance of ‘having better things to do’, burying the CSI team under a heavy workload to, as per usual, show up at the last second and scoop up all the glory, in their opinion. Agent Cho was loosing his unit’ s respect fast.

Phil took this opportunity like a bastard Fury had taught him to be.

Nick Fury would only point out that he just trained what was already there.

Senior agent Coulson generously offered the CSI team his assistance, making them speechless and just nod their grateful acceptance. Phil saw amused, that some of the lab techs swayed at the sight of him taking off his jacket. By showing off his forearms, when he rolled up the sleeves and donning on the CS suit, he rendered the entire lab unit braindead and blind for long minutes. Phil knew how to work a room, yes, he did.

Using the advantage of everyone’s distraction, Coulson simply walked the location by himself in silence over and over and over…

See, just doing boring stuff. Nothing to see here. No one noticed, that the first and only thing Phil did, breaking the protocol like a total nooby, when he wasn't closely observed any longer, was to take one selfie doing a V-sign using the discarded food containers as background with his phone and send it to Director Fury.

Nick would later get the photo framed. It still stood on his desk to this day.

Phil wasn’t actually helping yet, but he mercifully wasn't disturbing the evidence too. He was trying to calm down. Instead of the room and the shooting, he focused on going thoroughly through the bathroom, as misdirection dictated. After finding his cool, Coulson got down to business and requested a CSI kit and a camera. Senior agent Coulson could collect the evidence in accordance to the rules and by the book, like the best of them, it'd centered him. He fastidiously studied and catalogued the hospital first aid kits, the used sutures and large supplies of medical grade pain killers. All those bloodied leftovers suggested that something serious happened here.

After a thorough examination of the place and getting together for on site event’s analysis, the grateful CSI squad had treated senior agent Coulson with some field coffee, apologizing profusely that it was lousy, but adding some sugar powder doughnuts to sweeten the deal. Agent Coulson didn’t look like he minded, lazing about with the group and seemingly not listening to the SHIELD’s chatter, just munching on the pastry in content silence. His eyes appeared to shine, when they not quite lingered on an evidence photo of discarded take away containers.

Phil listened to the field EMT lineup’s gossip idly. The general consensus of the first responders' not only excluded any fucking taking place in this room, due to clear signs of severe hemorrhages and early stages of infections. This was also backed up by the lab techs who couldn’t believe that both of the people did, what it looked like they have done. To themselves in total cooperation, despite the blood. Well, to each other with almost enthusiastic agreement through all the pain, it appeared. And it was unbelievable, that after this amount of stuff they’ve taken afterwards, even with the food, they didn’t still laid unconscious in this one tiny bed. Instead, they went into a gun fight in this shady room. And Hawkeye totally won in this seedy Hungarian motel, like a bad ass he was, no help from Black Widow needed.

“I agree,” agent Coulson summed up the chitchat, making everybody choke at the sudden sound of his mild voice.

“Again, thank you for your effort,” Coulson gulped down the last dainty bite with the final swirl of his cup. “You’re all dismissed,” he nodded at the coughing unit and took his escape, passing by a triumphantly returned agent Cho. After all, Phil had somewhere to be.

Phil already knew when. And now, he knew where.

So, yes, senior agent Coulson was chafed for 4 days, 15 hours and 11 minutes, to be very precise.

But then the doors opposite where Phil was sitting opened. Slightly staggering couple entered the only decent Italian place within 8 hours’ drive of Budapest and joined his table. Defecting Black Widow and Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman reporting for duty with his handler, senior agent Phil Coulson.

At the sight, Nick Fury finally relaxed. He wouldn’t admit it ever, not even under pain of death.

Phil just finally smiled.


	4. Hungarian version of Mexican standoff

SHIELD was intrigued. Its director was not. The smooth recruitment of famously ruthless Black Widow and bloodless capture of rouge Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman by senior agent Phil Coulson was one of division’s great mysteries. Director Fury hadn’t had time for this shit. He trusted Cheese to sort any of this scuttlebutt nonsense out.

The curious case had spun into many fantastic tales and frankly ridiculous legends. Like the one telling, that Romanoff had seduced both Clint and Phil over pizza and coffee with her eloquence and blowjobs. Or the other, that said she negotiated her surrender while holding stilettos to their balls, Hungarian version of Mexican standoff. The more out there claimed, that she made a pact of absolute loyalty above all reason and understanding, by bounding them with blood loss and drug trips.

Junior agents usually asked about any of those stories as a result of a dare. Hawkeye always confirmed the knives, flashing one of his blades out of nowhere in elaborate show which somehow regularly resulted in someone loosing a tie.

Senior agent Coulson’s deadpan acknowledgements were said with an awfully fake familiar smile and terrifyingly overplayed wink, that yes, the coffee was good. It made everybody almost physically uncomfortable. Coulson’s puns and dry sense of comedy was one of his many hidden talents and he pursued it with such quiet passion, that close to nobody was ever the wiser.

No-one was brave enough to ask agent Romanoff directly about her recollection of any pacts, to her amusement. Sometimes, when the whispers wouldn’t quiet down naturally, out of boredom or spite, Natasha would sent the more insolent or persistent ones to do a name search. This way, some junior agents would learn quickly and efficiently what happened, when someone got on Black Widow’s wrong side or just nerve. That lesson sometimes resulted in increased requests for therapy sessions or sleep medication to fight of nightmares, but it usually had struck home hard. No additional explanation was ever needed and Romanoff’s status of unapproachable grew.

The name search game lead to a file containing results from the first crime scene at Barton’s perch. After DNA sequencing of both pools of blood and wall splatter, the ballistics confirmed that it was Balck Widow’s work on the two accounts. Additional tests verified that it was Barton’s blood and of one Russian citizen with Red Room affiliations.

Back then, director Fury skimmed through SVR’s acquired dossier. He decided to redact the associate’s name permanently and senior agent Coulson followed suit, along with SHIELD. Black Widow’s associate would remain nameless, marked as ‘unknown’, not even gaining a ‘John Doe’ status in SHIELD’s archives. It was the only right thing to do, since this man could not be killed again for what he had done.

This man did not deserved any recognition, commented director Fury in the privacy of his own head. This man didn’t deserved to be considered a man, agreed senior agent Coulson wholeheartedly. Black Widow would have been pleased with the gesture, if she could feel such emotions. Later, Nat allowed herself to be touched.

Fury didn’t have to wonder, how the whole affair of catching famous spies went down. Nick was there, two tables over, as per Cheese’s tip, his permanently designated back up. He heard the whole spiel. Later, director had altered the surveillance feeds himself. Only one copy remained, for his viewing pleasure only. For the rest of the world is was ‘top secret’ and on the ‘need to know’ basis. For anyone with FYEO clearance interested and power drunk enough, Fury usually said that the future Strike Team Delta first meeting went down a little as follows:

_When Clint’s eyes caught Phil’s smiling profile among the pizzeria crowds, his resulting mega watt beam gave them instantly away, putting Black Widow on high alert, suddenly second guessing everything that happened between them ever since her first shot in that warehouse. In Fury’s mind, she should not bothered with trying to erase all that emotions changing her features._

_Romanoff stumbled slightly, thrown out of her balance, when Clint pulled her to Coulson’s table without hesitation. This was wrong. She didn’t have enough time to think. Has this all been a play? To capture her? To kill her? Was Barton conspiring with SHIELD this whole time? Wasn’t she carefully enough? See, you shouldn’t’ve trusted another man, stupid, stupid, stupid…_

_“Your SHIELD training had kept you right, I see,” Phil shook his head minutely, when Clint all but fell on the opposite chair, saving his coffee cup from spilling by lifting it beforehand and taking a small sip._

_“Oh, they tried, sir,” Barton'd gracelessly thrown his limbs around, scowling in pain when his stitches pulled without mercy_ _. “Unfortunately, once I’ve decided that SHIELD was done and took over, I’ve wasted most of their efforts,” he sat up straighter, moving more cautiously while stealing Coulson’s coffee cup and gulping it down in one go._

_“Some of it stuck, I see, ” Coulson acknowledged Natasha’s slower approach, “like being polite to a lady,” he bowed his head slightly in greeting. Black Widow returned it, rearranging the remaining chair in clear show of defiance and displeasure at being played. When she sat down, Romanoff was precisely facing them both as equals. She then drew a knife and a gun discreetly below the table top, pointing the weapons at the men, dead serious._

_“Well, I don’t think it was my good manners talking, sir,” Clint’s face fell, paling a little and projecting his inner turmoil as he observed Nat’s taunt posture. No, Nat, come on… Not this again. We’ve been through this. Trust me. To Fury, Barton's tries not to be obvious with his pleas were as effective as a paper bag in a rain._ _“It was more of that last bits of self preservation.”_

_Clint shook his head at her discreetly, his eyes browsing through their surroundings. Barton pointed out upcoming waitress, caring a tray of drinks. Civilian, one, non threat, don't spook her, don't make a scene._

_“And good observation skills,” Coulson started to clear the table carefully projecting his every move, making Nat calm down minutely, “which clearly your friend posses as well, if not any of that famous self preservation.”_

_Phil might’ve dabbled with danger from time to time, but he wasn’t stupid, Nick knew. His relaxed posture still had held a professional vibe, tactical restraint all but screaming at Nat. She knew, he had brought back up, of course, but not because he was weak or felt threatened. He needed a witness. Senior agent Coulson clearly knew how to handle himself, even with a blade inches away from his groin. Curious man._

_“She is rather slow sometimes, sir, but she is my friend…” Barton was interrupted mid sentence by a second hostess’ arrival. He clearly lost his train of thought, switching from ‘threat’ to ‘starving’ mode in a flash, staring at the two large pepperoni pies lovingly. Yes, Nick smirked, pizza was always Hawkeye’s soft spot. It seemed to turn him into a five year old, famished kid._

_“Is that true, miss Romanoff? Phil just sighed, slowly placing a slice on a plate and pushing it delicately Natasha’s way. “Are you Barton’s friend?” His motions were precisely repeated, but this plate he pulled to himself._

_“I am, agent Coulson,” Nat admitted, loosing her previous defiance little by little, observing Coulson's exact fork and knife work with interest. It turned into awe as Barton sloppily stole a slice, stuffed it in his mouth, biting a huge chuck and smirked in pure bliss._

_“I like him,” Nat added, like an afterthought with devious timing. So, her try at intimidation did not work. Let's see what cooperation might get her, Nat gingerly holstered her weapons._

_Clint instantly choked at hearing her simple words, burning his mouth in a process and snapping his eyes open. He tried to grab a nearest glass of water to put the fire out down in his throat, knocking the near by sodas._

_Non of the glasses made contact with the floor._

_“What?” Agent Coulson asked simply, as he caught the first container effortlessly one handed, before it even tipped or spilled its content, somehow foreseeing that exact sequence of events and acting accordingly in another small show of future predicting._

_“Wha..?” Barton tried to grit out, when he kicked up the other bottle just above ground level with a sole of his boot. The flask turned in the air like in a juggler’s trick and was redirected mid air by a flick of Clint’s fingers then landed on table top with a dramatic splash, all while he was still fighting with a stringy cheese, out of breath without looking._

_“I like him,” Nat repeated. The last glass vanished without a trace or sound, only somewhere in Nat’s general vicinity. It reappeared attentively, as if by magic by Clint’s hand, when Phil was still dabbing at the table top to clean up Barton’s related mess with tissues. Fury enjoyed the show immensely._

_“I know it’s hard to accept,” Nat continued, unfazed by Phil’s watchful and Clint’s dazed staring, “but I’ve been told, that once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, this should come easy.” Oh yes, Coulson definitely got this, the brainiac that he was, Fury's experience smirked._

_“How unexpected,” stuttered Agent Coulson, frozen mid gesture, nearly giddy with delight, “are you going to insist on that?” He stared at Romanoff, face slack and open in an awed stupor. Black Widow weapon’s like usage of connection making out of thin air and wicked memory was scarily impressive, even to deadpan loving senior agent Coulson. He might’ve found a kindred spirit, it seemed and it just about destroyed his defenses for a moment. If Barton wasn’t kind of dying out there, he should‘ve fell jealous at that look on Phil’s face, to Nick’s amusement._

_“If I may be so bold, sir,” Nat smiled shyly at Phil for the first time, then turned her attention to Barton, all shield firmly back in place and slapped his back, helping him to cough out the last bite that fell in the wrong pipe._

_Chew, before you swallow, Barton, she rolled her eyes at the boy’s antics, catching Coulson’s equal disdain with a corner of her eye._

_That would be advisable in the future, yes, said Phil’s slightly frowned eyebrows._

_Yes, Mom. Yes, Dad. Clint poked out his tongue at them, disgustingly covered in pizza pieces and snatched Nat’s soda bottle, downing it like a parched man, looking at Coulson’s scorn and Romanoff’s annoyance with amused defiance._

_Did they knew, they were looking at Hawkeye with the exact same frowns, Nick Fury wondered afterwards. They could’ve used each other for a mirror in this moment. This was going good. Fury was having a time of his life._

_“Very well, then,” Phil simply acknowledged Black Widow’s statement at face value, like he always would in the future, to Nat’s surprise. Clint just shrugged, immune, accustomed to Phil’s little ways. “Welcome to SHIELD, junior agent Romanoff,” senior agent Coulson’s mild voice declared with finality._

And that was that.

SHIELD’s director was never surprised by the Black Widow recruitment’s outcome. If he had been a sentimental type, he would’ve thought it was a beginning of a beautiful friendship. Since we was, who he was, Fury just thought of it as useful.

After all, precisely 111 hours and 11 minutes had passed between Hawkeye’s going dark and reestablishing contact with his handler in a pizza place, taking a deadly stowaway along that particular cruise. It was what Fury expected. You could always count on Barton’s pepperoni pie addiction. And he trusted his one good eye to figure it all out.

Phil liked precision as well, and had pass it on Clint to rely on it too. Nat would learn to trust this.

It was simple, really, in Fury’s book. Natasha Romanoff had fell for Clint Barton. Hard. Phil Coulson understood. He clearly let her see it, dropping his mask for a second and showing that Nat wasn't the first one. The only one.

They all saw Clint as just a boy, even though he was 3 years older than her. Barton had a way of sneaking up on certain kind of people, apparently. Closed off secret agents. Defecting soviet killers. Cynical leather wearing directors. Catching them through their blind spots by surprise. And letting them keep him with all the benefit of a doubt.

And perhaps it was ok, said Coulson’s kind eyes. Perhaps it was safe to fall, said Clint’s saucy smirk. And Nat simply gave in.

Because someone will catch her for once. If she let them. When.

Director Fury will use that, too.


End file.
